saying you don’t know it you don’t know it
Bella Akhmadulina in candlelight: “American poet you can never know the tragedy of Russia”
Nor you General Borge Father Cardenal Vice President Rodríguez you say you don’t know it
Can’t know it too busy with Yankee war Worse than memory of Stalin
That you know, yes you do know it
But you don’t know it but you will know it
yes you will know it Lenin said
the first time History’s Tragedy Second repeat it’s Comedy
or was it Trotsky? Marx?
Non pasaran whispers from the Elbe, intellectual teeth chattering on Danube & Vistula
Village churchbells drowned in Volga waters dammed by Commissar engineers, riverwater evaporating faster than it reaches the sea
the Taiga woodsman weeping over “boring pamphlets” his forests provided
Kulaks rattling skulls & bones to seed a new millennial agriculture by 1980 ’90 2000
with Lysenko’s ectoplasm providing ammonia to grow Kasha
You don’t know it intellectual Castro fat ass Power Chair a quarter century
biting fairies’ nuts off, sneaking into Manolo’s desk to read my love letters
making Heberto Padilla eat your speeches You don’t know it’s a froufrou among French intellectual magazines you glance at as vice president of Nicaragua
between wars from North Yanquis and banquets with Pork & Rum after
TV evening news—
You don’t know it
Madame Mandelstam’s thick book’s gossip, Mrs. Evgenia Ginzburg’s
grey prisoners shitting on each other in the hull of the boat
on frozen sea out of Vladivostok going with the million
Card-carrying Party members old Bolshevik friends of Lenin
to the frozen puddles and hungry banks of Kolyma
where skeletons hit each other to keep alive you don’t know it
And they don’t know it, Aksionov Škvorecky Romain Rolland Ehrenburg Fedorenko Markov Yevtushenko—
don’t know midnight Death Squad clubs on cobblestone no
the ears cut off, heads chopped open in Salvador don’t know the million
Guatemala Indians in Model Villages—
Don’t know 40,000 bellies ripped open by the d’Aubuisson hit-men for Born Again neoconservative Texans,
don’t know Yanquis taking tea & 1916 money from the Douane, ex
change for Chinese opium
trading bananas to Europe for Tax Control in Managua & Shanghai—
don’t know the holocaust in Salvador 25 years ago 30,000 shot one week for thinking Left-Pink-triangle yellow-red headband high on peyote
& you don’t know Imagination that leaps like a frog in Communist Monastery Ponds—
Don’t know you confess like a worm turning in a matchbox full of salt
Don’t know Solitary, Lesbian Capo ordering Movie Star Princess to expose her ———
and her delicate pink ——— and her firm round ——— to the false dogs of Ideology Fart Yowp with big pricks Whip Blip Blip Blip—
Bugger it up in Dynamite Don’t know the Marines in your mother’s toilet
No you don’t know it we don’t know it only stupid American minstrels know intolerant gasbags ascending
with millions of Readers’ Digest copies
and photo enlargements of a thumbnail translation of the Moravian Bible
Put in my shirt-pocket in a sweat eyes closing as the enemy approaches
to fall asleep & snore Don’t I know it
January 25, 1986, 2:00–2:12 A.M.
Managua
On the Conduct of the World Seeking Beauty Against Government
Is that the only way we can become like Indians, like Rhinoceri,
like Quartz Crystals, like organic farmers, live what we imagine
Adam & Eve to’ve been, caressing each other with trembling limbs
before the Snake of Revolutionary Sex wrapped itself round
the Tree of Knowledge? What would Roque Dalton joke about lately
teeth chattering like a machine gun as he debated mass tactics
with his Compañeros? Necessary to kill the Yanquis with big bomb
Yes but don’t do it by yourself, better consult your mother
to get the Correct Line of Thought, if not consult Rimbaud once he got his leg cut off
or Lenin after his second stroke sending a message thru Mrs. Krupskaya to the rude Georgian, & just before his deathly fit when the
Cheka aides outside
his door looked in coldly assuring him his affairs were in good hands
no need to move—What sickness at the pit of his stomach moved up to his brain?
What thought Khlebnikov on the hungry train exposing his stomach to the sun?
Or Mayakovsky before the bullet hit his brain, what sharp propaganda for action
on the Bureaucratic Battlefield in the Ministry of Collective Agriculture in Ukraine?
What Slogan for Futurist architects or epic hymn for masses of Communist Party Card holders in Futurity
on the conduct of the world seeking beauty against Government?
January 27, 1986
Hard Labor
After midnite, Second Avenue horseradish Beef
at Kiev’s wood tables—
The Kasha Mushrooms tastes good
as Byelorussia usta when my momma
ran away from Cossacks 1905
Did the 5 year plan work? How bad Stalin?
Am I a Stalinist? A Capitalist? A
Bourgeois Stinker? A rotten Red?
No I’m a fairy with purple wings and white halo
translucent as an onion ring in
the transsexual fluorescent light of Kiev
Restaurant after a hard day’s work
February 17, 1986, 12:35 A.M.
Velocity of Money
For Lee Berton
I’m delighted by the velocity of money as it whistles through windows of Lower East Side
Delighted skyscrapers rise grungy apartments fall on 84th Street’s pavement
Delighted this year inflation drives me out on the street
with double digit interest rates in Capitalist worlds
I always was a communist, now we’ll win
as usury makes walls thinner, books thicker & dumber
Usury makes my poetry more valuable
Manuscripts worth their weight in useless gold—
The velocity’s what counts as the National Debt gets trillions higher
Everybody running after the rising dollar
Crowds of joggers down Broadway past City Hall on the way to the Fed
Nobody reads Dostoyevsky books anymore so they’ll have to give passing ear
to my fragmented ravings in between President’s speeches
Nothing’s happening but the collapse of the Economy
so I can go back to sleep till the landlord wins his eviction suit in court
February 18, 1986, 10:00 A.M.
Sphincter
I hope my good old asshole holds out
60 years it’s been mostly OK
Tho in Bolivia a fissure operation
survived the altiplano hospital—
a little blood, no polyps, occasionally
a small hemorrhoid
active, eager, receptive to phallus
coke bottle, candle, carrot
banana & fingers—
Now AIDS makes it shy, but still
eager to serve—
out with the dumps, in with the condom’d
orgasmic friend—
still rubbery muscular,
unashamed wide open for joy
But another 20 years who knows,
old folks got troubles everywhere—
necks, prostates, stomachs, joints—
Hope the old hole stays young
till death, relax
Marc
h 15, 1986, 1:00 P.M.
Spot Anger
“Drive all blames into one”
Allen when you get angry you got two choices—
Konk your head on the floor with words
Bang the kitchen table, slap taxicab doors,
insult hotel toilets
Snarl into National microphones, sneer at the
speedfreak closet girl syringiste—
Why not more subtle, grab your anger by the wings
and bag it in the garbage pail
Look around by the venetian blind
It’s only you in the universe’s kitchen—
A subtler wave of the hand, patience—
Say, I don’t want this Saturn trip, no thanks,
Domo arigato how nice but I’ll not entertain
Dr. Frankenstein till Monday
These pants don’t fit, may I borrow your library card—
Breathe your typhoonic tantrum in, exhale a gentle
breath of Ginsberg out the kitchen window
wafting a Springtime Fairy feather-slight
raising a big iron pipe
to konk Mr. Temper Tantrum on his green bull noodle & fly off
over Manhattan weaving silver laughter
round skyscraper spires.
April 24, 1986, 6:00 A.M.
London Dream Doors
On London’s Tavern’s wooden table, been reading Kit Smart—
God sent him to sea for pearls—till eyes heavy must sleep—
So went upstairs to my boardinghouse room yet the tall dark
boy that lived across the hall’d just got under covers
in a high Captain’s bed, but left his door wide open,
his room furnished mahogany, oak crowded to the closets—
I gazed alas he was handsome, older than my choice of flesh
smooth boyhood, the lad had dark eyes, long limbs
a little hair on legs and chest, a little beard and smile—
I dozed, woke and returned from the bog, again passing
his room at stairtop— He lay in bed eyes open, I paused—
then turned aside thru his door, an embrace before going
to sleep in my own solid room I’d rented, first night
in this odd town, I’d come to teach a few strangers Love
& Poetry— So cast myself on his chest for a hug goodnight,
a second’s surprise like father-son sweet dreams—
He clasped arms around me, held tight, I stopped a second—
More than I’d hoped for! Refreshing friendliness!—
lay there a minute, his warmth remained, spontaneous—
Grateful hugged his chest & quickly kissed his neck
& face, haste before I must rise— Yet no need to go
so with right leg I pushed the door in, closed,
we were alone. He pulled me on top of him, held each other,
I passed my hand along his side down to his thigh
he shivered, hands on my back, we began to sweat
under covers, his skin like slippery meat, the heat
of our embrace familiar, companionable surprise, I was
to be loved by his strong form, how soon hug his middle?
touch his flaccid glans? My own already thick with pleasure—
chest to his chest, legs intertwined, hard hair felt
uncomfortable under my hand—moved my palm across
his slimy stomach, sweat not unpleasant, close heat
amazed us both, secret freedom in his antique room,
invitation to explore night’s pleasure, fresh conscience,
muscled thoughts, hearts glowing astounded happiness a brief
8 hours in the dark— What to do? I kissed his solar plexus
& belly above loins, he sighed and breathed on my neck in back,
affectionate clasped to his breast, arm round my waist— eyes
closed I lay still, head under white muslin in dim light,
quilt set aside for the heat—
The door opened suddenly!
“You’ll have to pay for the night’s furniture” announced
the landlord. “You’ll have to pay for the sink water and extra
covers! We rent or sell!” He fell silent. Hadn’t he noticed
my bulk under thin sheet-cloth? But next instant he was
gone downstairs to write up the bill, door left ajar.
“Into my closet!” my new friend whispered urgent, “the first door!”—
The knob on his mirrored armoire stuck, wouldn’t open,
same horrific closet of old play-movie nightmare blackouts—I saw
my own room entrance across the hall—“I’ll go in there, seconds
to hide,” fast before the old fellow returns! Naked trailing
sheet & blanket I crossed the hall stealthy, closed my bedroom
door behind, just time enough? Alas bed sheets blocked
the door jamb, clogged the landing, pull them through, I strained,
dragged awkward blankets inside in a trice and woke under
springtime sheets and linen cover alone, East Twelfth Street,
last night with Bengali Marathi Urdu poets, Museum of Modern Art.
May 6, 1986, 3:10 A.M.
Cosmopolitan Greetings
To Struga Festival Golden Wreath Laureates
& International Bards 1986
Stand up against governments, against God.
Stay irresponsible.
Say only what we know & imagine.
Absolutes are coercion.
Change is absolute.
Ordinary mind includes eternal perceptions.
Observe what’s vivid.
Notice what you notice.
Catch yourself thinking.
Vividness is self-selecting.
If we don’t show anyone, we’re free to write anything.
Remember the future.
Advise only yourself.
Don’t drink yourself to death.
Two molecules clanking against each other require an observer to become scientific data.
The measuring instrument determines the appearance of the phenomenal world after Einstein.
The universe is subjective.
Walt Whitman celebrated Person.
We are observer, measuring instrument, eye, subject, Person.
Universe is Person.
Inside skull vast as outside skull.
Mind is outer space.
“Each on his bed spoke to himself alone, making no sound.”
“First thought, best thought.”
Mind is shapely, Art is shapely.
Maximum information, minimum number of syllables.
Syntax condensed, sound is solid.
Intense fragments of spoken idiom, best.
Consonants around vowels make sense.
Savor vowels, appreciate consonants.
Subject is known by what she sees.
Others can measure their vision by what we see.
Candor ends paranoia.
Kral Majales
June 25, 1986
Boulder, Colorado
FIFTH INTERNATIONALE
Fifth Internationale
To Billy MacKeever
Arise ye prisoners of your mind-set
Arise Neurotics of the Earth
For Insight thunders Liberation
A sacred world’s in birth
No more Attachment’s chains shall bind us
Mind’s Aggression no more rules
The Earth shall rise on new foundations
We have been jerks we shall be Fools
’Tis the Path of Accumulation
Let each sit on his place
The International Crazy Wisdom School
Could save the Human Race
July 1986
Naropa
EUROPE, WHO KNOWS?
Europe, Who Knows?
All over Europe people are saying, “Who knows?”
> Asphodel’s fine but next year what comes with the rose?
Cabbage smells good but depends which way the wind blows
All over Europe people are saying, “Who knows?”
Wormwood skies’ll poison the sea: Revelation
Oslo to Athens black clouds’ve enlightened the nations
Cesium mushrooms & milk may mutate the Creation
All over Europe people are saying, “Who knows?”
Crossing the park in Munich Max Planck Institute
On my forearm and brow a film of invisible soot
Fell on my skin out of heaven, a new set of clothes
All over Europe people are saying, “Who knows?”
Woke up in Poland, maple leaves just wilted down
Not a cloud in the sky inexplicably cold on the ground
Kids in the yard were playing without any clothes
All over Europe people are saying, “Who knows?”
Phoned up the doctor, official reply: “Never mind”
Same afternoon suggested we take iodine
Three days later Chernobyl’s error disclosed
All over Europe people are saying, “Who knows?”
Slaughtered the reindeer in Lapland, Lapps on the dole
Camembert radioactive, in Zurich, the gold
In the Cotswolds of England all the sheep markets were closed
All over Europe people are saying, “Who knows?”
If a liter of water’s one x-ray in Washington State
So in milk bars of Minsk what does it cost a milkshake?
Big apples this year, we still have to eat up what grows
If we didn’t eat poison we’d starve, Brother, everyone knows.
September 12, 1986 (with Steven Taylor)
Warsaw Airport
Graphic Winces
In highschool when you crack your front tooth bending down too fast over the porcelain water fountain
or raise the tuna sandwich to your open mouth and a cockroach tickles your knuckle
or step off the kitchen cabinet ladder on the ball of your foot hear the piercing meow of a soft kitten
or sit on a rattling subway next the woman scratching sores on her legs, thick pus on her fingers
or put your tongue to a winter-frozen porch door, a layer of frightening white flesh sticks to the wooden frame—